The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (46 page)

Isabel’s nose wrinkles as she follows his gaze down the street. Josie McGowan? Josie with her pouffy hair and short skirts, her dominatrix black leather stiletto boots? Josie McGowan is the other single woman on the street, not widowed like Isabel but divorced. Twice. And she’s a smoker, too. She doesn’t seem like Ian’s type at all.

Ian frowns. “Did I say something wrong?”

Isabel turns her attention back to him. “What? No, why?”

“Because you have this look on your face like you smelled something bad.” He pretends to sniff his underarms. “Nope, not me. Fresh as a daisy.”

Isabel laughs. “Sorry. Just … so, um, what kind of work will you be doing for Josie?”

“Just your basic winterizing of the house,” he says. He starts ticking items off on his fingers. “Put garden hoses away, clean the gutters, blow out the sprinkler system, and so on. But Josie wants to make sure her driveway and walkways are cleaned and sealed. Most concrete and masonry surfaces have a hard time with the freeze and thaw cycles so her driveway is cracked in places. Throwing on salt and other ice-melting chemicals can make it worse.”

“I never knew that,” Isabel says. Then she adds quickly, “I should probably have you look over here, too.”

Ian glances at her driveway. “Actually, you’re in pretty good shape,” he says. He leans on the steering wheel. “I noticed that before when I was working on the porch.”

Isabel clears her throat. “Well, better safe than sorry,” she says. “I haven’t given the house much attention until now, and it’s probably
suffered as a result. Now that I’m staying, I should make sure everything’s okay.”

Ian shrugs. “Sure, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” He points to her roof. “Though you might need to get those gutters cleaned sometime soon.”

Isabel had noticed that, too. “I’ve been meaning to get someone to work on them,” she says. “Is that something you could you do, too? How much would it cost for everything?”

Ian’s cellphone starts to ring. He checks the number. “Oops, looks like I’m a few minutes late to Josie’s house.” He presses a button and lifts the phone to his ear. “Hi, Josie. Yes, I’m heading over right now. Just giving Isabel a couple of tips about her house … yes, of course I’ll do the same for you. Okay. See you in five.” He hangs up with an apologetic look on his face. “Sorry. Duty calls. Tell you what. I’m committed to Josie’s during the week, but I’ll swing by on Saturday and start in on those gutters. We’ll play the rest by ear. Eight a.m. sound good?”

“Yes.” Isabel feels giddy at the thought of seeing him again, wonders what other projects she can throw his way. “Oh, and I promise not to greet you in my pajamas.”

Ian feigns disappointment. “Maybe I’ll knock on your door an hour earlier then.”

“Don’t you dare!” she says, her cheeks flushing with pleasure. She already knows what she’ll wear: jeans and a tangerine V-neck sweater that’s been calling her name this past week. She’d pulled it out of her closet, her white clothes stark and bland against this unexpected burst of color. It was then that she started thinking that maybe Yvonne was right, that it was time to put away her all-white wardrobe, but not because it’s way past Labor Day, but because Isabel is ready for a little more color in her life.

He grins. “Okay, okay. Eight it is. Oh, and you never did tell me how you like your coffee.” His phone starts buzzing again but he presses a button to turn it off, his eyes still on Isabel.

“Black,” she says. “With two sugars.”

He taps the side of his head. “Black, two sugars. Got it.” He gives
her a wave as he heads back to his truck, his phone buzzing once again. He ignores it. “See you on Saturday, Isabel. And if you decide to open the door in your pajamas, I won’t complain.”

Forever Family
, Frances types into her keyboard. She looks at the computer display and, satisfied, hits
ENTER
.

It takes a second, and then suddenly there it is: the family photo taken last Christmas, her and Reed on the couch, the boys scrunched up around them, looking goofy for the camera. Mei Ling’s picture appears in the corner with
FOREVER FAMILY
scrolling across the frame. Frances grins, proud.

Frances had been following the adoption blogs of other families, admiring the level of detail and information, grateful that people were so forthcoming about their adoption experiences. At first she didn’t understand how people had time to write or blog about their life, much less post pictures and provide links to other resources and like-minded websites, until she realized that keeping a family blog was what kept them sane. Chronicling daily life before, during, and after the adoption seemed to help to make the hard days bearable and the good days a celebration. Frances also figures it’s a great way for grandparents and friends to check in and see pictures of the kids whenever they want. Her secret hope is that over time Nick, Noah, Brady, and Mei Ling will write their own posts and journal entries, too. Maybe even Reed.

The best part is that at the end of the year she’s going to figure out a way to print everything into a book and bind it. She’ll do it annually, create a Latham family yearbook of sorts, and she’ll make enough copies for everyone. Frances enjoys making special scrapbooking albums but she wants to find a way to chronicle everyday life in a way that’s easy to manage without stacks of photos everywhere. She especially loves the idea that the kids will have these growing up and can take them with them when they start their own families. After all, isn’t that what memory keeping is all about?

In the sidebar, Frances types in the addresses to the adoption blogs
that have given her the most support, especially the other families who have children with congenital disorders like Mei Ling. Right now Reed and Frances have no choice but to go by the medical report, which is insufficient in so many ways, but they won’t know the full extent of Mei Ling’s condition until she’s here with them. Frances already has spoken with pediatric cardiologists at Rush University Medical Center in Chicago and at the University of Illinois. She even found a pediatric cardiology practice in Rockford that has worked with many adopted children with heart issues. Cincinnati’s Children’s Hospital also has extensive pediatric services, and it’s a comfort to know these resources are so close and available to them.

The biggest challenge, Frances knows, is that both diagnosis and treatment have been delayed for so long that issues that might have been addressed or resolved earlier are now intensified and more severe. Emboldened by their decision to go through with the adoption, they pushed for more information, for every scrap of detail. They got reports of how Mei Ling would sweat whenever she was being fed and was more tired than other children. Like many other adopted children, Mei Ling is smaller than other children her age and has that awful “failure to thrive” label. Frances tries not to get upset at the thought of Mei Ling’s heart working so hard just to keep her alive.

But one look at her picture, at Mei Ling’s smiling face, and Frances knows this child has a spirit that matches her own. She plans to do anything and everything in her power to give Mei Ling a shot at living a full and happy life, just as she would any of her children.

This next year will be filled with doctor’s appointments as they try to assess the true nature of Mei Ling’s health and medical needs. What they know (or think they know) is that Mei Ling has ventricular septal defect, or VSD. Simply put, there’s a hole in the wall of her heart and she’ll need open-heart surgery shortly after her arrival. Frances also knows that there may be other medical problems that weren’t disclosed in the report or that may crop up later. But how is that different from anything else in life? There is no crystal ball, no money-back guarantee.

Frances decides to keep her growing to-do list on the blog as well.
She’s done her best to research what to bring and not to bring on their trip, and their adoption agency has been immeasurably helpful in getting them prepared. Still, Frances likes hearing from other families who’ve been on the ground and especially those traveling with children because she and Reed have decided that they’re all going to get Mei Ling, even three-year-old Brady. As expensive as it is, it’s precious and important for so many reasons. As much as they want Mei Ling to become a part of their life here in Avalon, they want to become a part of her life and heritage in China, too.

Frances plugs in her camera and uploads the pictures from the other day. She and the boys made fried rice and broccoli with oyster sauce, both of which were easier than she expected. Reed was able to join them and found a simple recipe for a cold sesame cucumber salad, which he made by himself. They ate everything in less than ten minutes. Frances knows it’s a far cry from authentic Chinese cuisine, but it’s a start. She decides to include the recipes alongside the photos.

Her oven timer dings, telling her that the thirty minutes she set aside for the blog is now up. Time to move on to other chores, like packing. Because as soon as they get the green light, the Lathams are going to China.

“No, no, no!”

It’s a steady cry, a wail even. Ava clutches her purse and debates ringing the bell, but then Isabel’s front door opens and Bettie stumbles out, still dressed in her nightgown even though it’s mid-morning.

“No no no no no no no no no no,” she’s saying. A second later Isabel and a woman Ava doesn’t recognize appear behind her. “I said no!”

“Is everything all right?” Ava asks.

“Does everything look all right?” Isabel looks exasperated. She turns to the other woman. “Imogene, I told you to let me tell her!”

Isabel tries to corral Bettie back into the house. Bettie breaks free and starts pacing the porch, distraught.

“Bettie, dear, think of the fun we’ll have!” Imogene coos, her voice
forced gaiety. “Abe has set up your room with a view of the backyard and we can plant flowers come spring. We’ll watch all our favorite shows in the afternoon, play a little bunco with the ladies, host a few scrapbooking crops at the house. Whatever you want.”

“No,” Bettie moans.

Ava can tell that Isabel is agitated, but Isabel seems to rein it in as she puts a gentle arm around Bettie’s shoulder. “You’ll have such a good time,” she assures Bettie. “And I’ll come visit whenever you want.”

“But I want to stay here,” Bettie pouts. “In
my
house.”

Isabel leads Bettie to the porch railing and points to Bettie’s lot. “Your house burned down, remember? We’re trying to figure out what to do, but Imogene and Abe want you to live with them until then. She’s got your room all ready. And she has lots of scrapbooking supplies, I hear.”

“Oh, yes,” Imogene is nodding. “Society members were quite generous, Bettie, and Abe let me convert our den into a crafting room. It’s a scrapbooker’s dream, you’ll love it, I promise.” She gives her friend’s hand a pat, and it seems to calm her down.

“Well,” Bettie sniffs. “All right.” She turns to Ava, noticing her for the first time. She brightens, no longer distraught, and Ava wonders if Bettie even remembers the past few minutes. “Ava! Where’s Matt?”

“Max is in preschool,” Ava says gently. At the mention of her son’s name, Ava notices that Isabel frowns. “Though I’m sure he’d love to be here.”

“He is such a cutie pie,” Bettie says. “And those glasses!” She guffaws. The Bettie of thirty seconds ago is no longer, and in its place is the Bettie Ava first met in Margot’s shop two months ago.

“Come on, in you go,” Isabel says, ushering Bettie back inside.

Ava has the funny feeling that she’s imposing, and quickly digs into her purse and brings out a small pouch.

“I wanted to drop this off,” Ava says, handing it to Isabel. “I found it in one of the boxes you gave me, but I don’t know what it’s for. I figured it fell in there by accident. I didn’t want you to worry in case you couldn’t find it.”

Isabel stops to open the pouch, and a small key falls into her hand. She doesn’t seem to recognize it.

“I’ve never seen this before,” Isabel says, turning it over in her palm. She frowns, thinking.

Bettie peers around Isabel, nodding. “Hey, I have one of those,” she says. “For my safe-deposit box at the bank.”

“You have a safe-deposit box?” Isabel turns to look at her. “You never told me that!”

Bettie shrugs. “I forgot. Not that any of us should be surprised by that.”

Isabel turns and heads to the kitchen, the other women in tow. “That’s right,” she says, remembering. “Yvonne and I found a key under that stone angel on your porch when we were trying to get in your house. I can call Charlotte Snyder at Avalon State Bank and see if she has any record of your box. If she does, I’m sure we’ll be able to get them to open it.” Isabel’s suddenly excited.

“And yours, too,” Ava adds. “I mean, maybe they can open your box, too, now that you have the key.”

Isabel unfurls her palm and stares at the key again.

“But it’s not mine,” she says. “Bill and I never had a safe-deposit box. Are you sure it was in one of the boxes I gave you?”

Ava nods. “Positive. We—I—never had a safe-deposit box, either.” Ava’s face pales when she realizes what this could mean.

Did Bill keep secrets from Ava, too?

The key falls from Isabel’s palm onto the table. Isabel glances at Ava. “No offense, but if he has another family stashed away somewhere, I might lose it. Just so you’ve been warned.”

Ava gulps, nodding, but at the same time knows there has to be a logical explanation. There has to be. She can see Isabel building up a head of steam and doesn’t want to be there when it blows. “Well, I should go,” she says. “I have to pick up Max from preschool. And I also wanted to let you know that—” She stops when she sees the sudden grimace on Isabel’s face. “What?” she asks.

“What what?” Isabel says, immediately changing her expression.

“You have this look on your face, like you … disapprove or something.”

Isabel shakes her head. “Nope, just thinking about this whole key thing.” Her nose twitches like she’s about to sneeze.

Ava can tell Isabel has something to say, but she’s not so sure she wants to hear it. “Isabel?” she asks warily. “Say whatever it is you want to say.” She’d rather know than not know, and this may be her last chance. “Tell me.”